


Unforeseen Consequences

by ariadneslostthread



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 17:25:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadneslostthread/pseuds/ariadneslostthread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the end is nothing like the beginning. </p><p>It all starts with a protest gone badly wrong. Several of Les Amis are hurt, but this is insequential in the grand scheme of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unforeseen Consequences

**Author's Note:**

> I may have to change warnings in later chapters as I go along. I don't want to make spoilers for myself at the moment!

The start of this story really began many years ago, with a protest-inexplicably-turned-riot in which no one ever really knew what was going on.

***

After the fact Enjolras could never quite remember how the protest had go so sour qute so quickly. Bruised and battered though he may have been he was one of the few ami’s who hadn’t sustained a head injury.

The police had, apparently, not appreciated or plainly disregarded the fact that the protest was legal, they had all the permissions they were supposed to have and as far as Les Ami’s were aware, no one had been violent. Not, at least, until the police had, Bahorel was later heard to remark with a small, wry smile that was somehow quite terrifying on him. 

Enjolras probably had the best overview of the entire thing, for one, he’d been conscious throughout, and two, as usual he’d had a clear view over the crowd from his position atop a plinth and clinging one handed to the statue which sat on it. 

The crowd had been responding well, enthusiastic, hanging on his every word, fired up but not angry, not really, or aggressive. He’d finished most of his speech, for that at least, he was grateful as it had been rather good if he did say so himself; Jehan had given him some truly exceptional metaphors, before it all went, as the saying goes, to shit.

The crowd had entirely surrounded the statue, so Enjolras had been edging around it from time to time as he spoke. Whilst one side of the lopsided circle of people surrounding him had been cheering, pumping their fists into the air with stirrings of revolution the other side had, apparently, begun to pump their fists into each other faces. One hand gripping the arm of the statue whose plinth he’d appropriated and swinging round to once again address the other side of the crowd his eyes had sought out his friends at once. Easiest of all to spot was Jehan, resplendent in his retina-burning orange scarf and floral shirt. There he was, cheering Enjolras on, egging on the crowd, reeling backwards from a fist…wait, what? Reeling backward from a punch which seemed to have come from nowhere. For a moment, Enjolras was frozen in place while his eyes took in the brawl which had materialised seemingly from nowhere. Then he was flinging himself into the crowd, trying to get to Jehan. He thought he’d seen a few of the others, spread throughout the crowd, none of them were in a position to see Jehan, never mind help him. 

Pushing his way through a pair of people who were, thankfully and almost in their singularity, not fighting and looked terrified, Enjolras threw himself between Jehan and his attacker, arm up using his body, side on, to shield the already bloody and practically unconscious Jehan. 

“Stop!” He shouted desperately as something hard was brought down full force against his side. His rib cage exploded with pain, and if he hadn’t been on one already the blow would have forced him to his knees. With no chance for recovery, never mind any hope of retaliation another strike and pain like he’s never experienced before send him backwards. He catches himself with his other hand, perilously close to landing on Jehan’s shoulder, and manages to remain a human shield over his friend. Time suddenly becomes an abstract idea to Enjolras, as the next blow connects with his arm this time, and good god he’d be surprised if it hasn’t broken it, he is able to rage inwardly at the utter horror that is police brutality. He has realised the huge shape looming over them is actually a police officer, and rock solid thing which has repeatedly connected with his side, and apparently, Jehan’s head, is his night stick. This explains why it was hurting so god damn much. As Enjolras’ mind turns to formulating a plan for getting them out of this situation which didn’t involve his unconscious and broken body collapsing on top of Jehan’s he is saved the trouble as an equally huge blur barrels into their attacker, knocking him flat. Bahorel. Enjolras has never in his life been so glad to see a person. He staggers fully upright to see Bahorel knocking the police officer out, and throwing himself back into the fray, searching, Enjolras has no doubt, for their other friends.

Meanwhile, Enjolras has a seriously injured Jehan unconscious on the floor at his feet and for the second time in as many minutes relief floods through his body as he sees the flashing blue light and siren scream of an ambulance.

His arm, thankfully, isn’t broken he discovers as he pulls Jehan into his arms. His ribs, however, are definitely cracked, if not broken, he discovers as he stands, blackness encroaching the edges of his vision as the pain almost blinds him. Enjolras barely registers this he is so focused on hearing the thin wheeze of Jehan’s breathing by his ear and getting him to the EMT’s who have seen them and are coming to meet him with a stretcher.

They take Jehan from him, onto the stretcher and then the gurney and whisk him away toward an ambulance, assessing him as they move. Another paramedic stays with Enjolras, escorting him, questioning. 

“Are you hurt?”

Enjolras shakes his head, “No…just help Jehan, please.” He turns wide eyes to the paramedic, who reminds him a little of Combeferre and fills him with a desperate need to find the other man.

“Do you want to ride in the ambulance with him?” One of the paramedics pumping air into Jehan with a bag calls to him.

Enjolras is torn. “I have to find the others…which hospital?”

The paramedic currently touching Enjolras’ arm lightly gives him a very Combeferre-ish look, “Are you sure?”

Enjolras nods, pulling away. The paramedic sighs, says “Lady of Pity ER” and lets him go. 

Enjolras feels awful leaving Jehan, but he can’t leave until he knows the others are safe. He clambers onto a bench, trying to see any of Les Ami’s in the fray and is spotted almost immediately by Grantaire who is evidently trying to do the same thing Enjolras is. He’s by his side in a moment, breathing heavily and eyes wide and afraid. 

“Grantaire. Are you alright? Have you seen the others?” Enjolras’ hands grip Grantaire’s shoulders, eyes running up, down and over the other man for any hint of injury. There’s blood trickling from a cut above his eye, streaming from his nose and he’s holding his arm to his chest in a very odd way. 

“I’m fine.” Grantaire says, as he runs the same check over Enjolras who is careful to show no pain on his face, and tries to even his erratic breathing out. He doesn’t need Grantaire’s fuss at the moment. “I saw Bossuet and Feuilly, together, they were holding their own but I don’t know how long ago that was. I think Combeferre was by the buildings before it all… Are you…”

“Fine, I’m not hurt.” Enjolras says dismissively, thinking quickly and looking back at the ambulance into which paramedics are loading Jehan. “Grantaire, listen, Jehan is in that ambulance. Go with him, I need you be with him when he wakes up.”

Grantaire opens his mouth, but Enjolras doesn’t let him speak. “Grantaire! Please, just do it!”

Grantaire does not look happy, but nods and sprints for the ambulance. Enjolras is already sprinting for the buildings, ducking and dodging brawling protestors and steering as far as he can from the police who by now have an array of people lined up and handcuffed on the floor. He’s breathing hard by the time he leans up against the stone wall, pain coming in sharp bursts which radiate up and down his side. He skirts along the side of the building, a sick feeling in his stomach which he’s had since he’d seen the paramedic who reminded him of Combeferre. Enjolras wasn’t usually fatalistic, or even pessimistic, but his gut was telling him something was drastically wrong with Combeferre. 

It takes an unnervingly long time for Enjolras to find him, the fighting has lost some of its sudden and unexpected ferocity now, mostly sporadic groups of particularly pugilistic people hurling themselves against the police and each other. But Les Ami’s still need to get out of here as soon as possible, Enjolras in particular, before a police officer with a moment to spare and an over inflated sense of duty recognized him as the speaker and tried to arrest him. The protest may have been legal, and it could be proven that none of the ami’s had anything to do with inciting a riot, but that didn’t mean any of them wanted to spend the night in a cell, Enjolras included.

Finally, he saw the familiar shape of Combeferre, slumped against the building. As Enjolras skids to a halt in front of him, he sees Joly, slumped at Combeferre’s side and Courfeyrac crouching between them. 

“Keep him awake, Courf. Just keep him still and keep him awake…” Combeferre is saying “If you can.” He adds, grimacing with the pain which is written clearly across his face. “Enjolras!”

“Ferre…god, I thought…” Enjolras pants, filled with a strange mix of relief that he’s found the three of them, alive at least but extremely worse for wear, and dread because Joly, despite Courfeyrac’s attempts, is unconscious. “Are you…” he leaves the question unfinished; he’s clearly not alright.

“I think my leg is broken.” Combeferre says between gritted teeth, taking Enjolras’ offered hand. His leg is at a peculiar angle; Enjolras knows it’s broken as well as Combeferre does. 

“Courf?” Enjolras asks, reaching out his free hand to touch Courfeyrac’s shoulder. Courfeyrac looks traumatised, bloody, bruised but uninjured. 

“I’m fine.” There are tear tracks in the grime and blood on his face. “Ferre…he’s gone…I don’t know whether he’s asleep or unconscious or…” he sucks in a gulping breath, panic distorting his face.

“It’s ok. Courf, it’s ok. Breathe. He’s fine, check his pulse.” Combeferre says calmly, but breathless with pain. 

Courfeyrac’s hands shake as he presses his fingers to Joly’s neck, but he nods frantically. “It’s weak, but its there…”

“Good, good.” Combeferre replies, tipping his head back to lean on the wall, his eyes never leaving Courfeyrac and Joly. “Now, we need to get him to a hospital.”

And you. Enjolras thinks, but says out loud “Paramedics are here. Can he be moved?”

Combeferre nods, “He can…but I can’t…”

“Alright, Courfeyrac, help me lift him?” Enjolras asks, darting to Joly’s other side and sliding his arms under the other man’s prone form, Courfeyrac doing the same on his other side. Courfeyrac takes most of his weight as they stand up but Enjolras’ legs nearly give out from the pain which blossoms inside his chest. He manages to take Joly from Courfeyrac once they’re upright but it hurts and staggers in the direction of the ambulances still lining up across the road. Joly is slight, but not as slight as Jehan and taller too, so it’s more difficult and Enjolras has to hold him tight against his chest to keep from dropping him. The paramedics, once again, meet him halfway and have Joly strapped to a gurney before Enjolras can breathlessly wave an arm at where Courfeyrac and Combeferre are. 

“His leg…” Enjolras decides paramedics are angels on earth, as one of them breaks away, grabs and gurney, another paramedic, several pieces of kit and Enjolras’ arms and is dashing across to the two men before Enjolras’ can pant out another word.

The fluttery panic which adrenaline has caused in his chest eases once he has both Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s hands clutched in his. Courfeyrac has insisted he’s fine, so both paramedics are focussing on Combeferre who is white and on the verge of passing out.

“I’m going to give you some morphine, for the pain, alright?” The female paramedic is asking Combeferre. 

“Do you have to…” Combeferre whispers, his breath steaming the oxygen mask they’ve pulled over his face. “I want to be al…alert.”

Enjolras is terrified. He realises he’s never seen Combeferre hurt before, beyond a minor scrape or bruise, never seen him much beyond the flu. But Combeferre is steady as ever, refusing the drugs he knows will cloud his sharp mind. 

The paramedic stops what she is doing with the catheter on the back of Combeferre’s hand, taking it in hers and looking into his eyes. “Sweetie, listen to me. You’re a medical student, aren’t you?” she asks. Combeferre nods. “You know you need it. And trust me, once we move you, you are sure as hell going to want it.” Her voice is soft throughout, but begs no argument. Combeferre relents, and nods, much to Enjolras’ relief; he’s not sure he can cope with the agony written in Combeferre’s face for much longer. The morphine is instaneous. For a moment Enjolras wonders if they’ve given him too much and his hand goes almost limp in his, but he’s still conscious, reassuring Enjolras and Courfeyrac with a sleepy smile.

Even morphine isn’t enough to block the pain when they lift him, and even Combeferre can’t bite back the cry which escapes him. Courfeyrac has let go of Enjolras’ hand now, to seize Combeferre’s other hand as they make the short journey to the waiting ambulance. 

They both let go as the paramedics lift the gurney into the back of the ambulance. 

“I can go with Joly…” Courfeyrac says, indicating the other ambulance.

Enjolras hesitates. “The others…most of them are safe,” he says for want of a better word, “But I haven’t seen Bossuet or Feuilly. Grantaire has but…And Bahorel…”

“Stop.” Courfeyrac says, a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “By now they’ll have followed the contingency plan. We need to get out of here. We need to get you out of here.”

Courfeyrac is right, Enjolras knows this, and nodded reluctantly. Courfeyrac, more settled now his friends are in professional hands, gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and nudges him in the direction of Combeferre’s ambulance.

Enjolras climbs up, and sits where the female paramedic indicates, allowing her to strap him in before she turns back to COmbeferre. Combeferre is, miraculously, still conscious and incredulously, but somehow not unsurprisingly, holding a polite discussion with the paramedic. Enjolras hears her confirm they are indeed going to Lady of Pity ER, as Jehan had gone earlier, and he realises this is why the paramedic knew Combeferre was a medical student. Lady of Pity is the hospital Combeferre and Joly have been doing their clinical practice modules at.

He leans as far forward as he can to take Combeferre’s hand, mindful of the port on it’s back and is rewarded with the steady, constant pressure of Combeferre’s grip in return. Until they hit a pothole and Combeferre almost breaks his fingers. 

“M’sorry.” He whispers, catching Enjolras’ eye. 

Enjolras smiles back, “Don’t worry. It’s my left hand, break my fingers all you like.”

Combeferre returns the smile but its weak and suddenly Enjolras has never wanted to be at a hospital so badly in his life. They hit another bump and in addition to the pain which courses through his crunching knuckles he becomes sharply aware of the pain in his side. 

It must have shown on his face because Combeferre is frowning at him, asking “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine.” He reassures Combeferre, and the paramedic who is also staring unnervingly at him. He doesn’t see the look the two exchange.

It doesn’t actually take long for them to get there. Lady of Pity is fairly central and pretty much the ER of choice if you have one. The strange calm which has reigned in the ambulance throughout the journey is shattered when it pulls to a stop and the doors bang open immediately. Suddenly, the world is incredibly hectic as Enjolras jumps down from the ambulance and is reunited with Courfeyrac doing the same thing. Joly looks about as bad as Combeferre does, but still unconscious, as they wheel both of them into the hospital. Courfeyrac grabs his hand now and they follow the two gurneys through the insanity which is the ER on a Saturday through a maze of corridors. 

They take Joly off in one direction, and Combeferre in another. He gives Courfeyrac’s hand a reassuring squeeze as he follows the team rapidly discussing Joly’s condition as he follows the team doing much the same thing for Combeferre.

The assessment doesn’t take long really, and Combeferre is floating fairly content and almost pain free on the drugs he has been given. His hand still grips Enjolras’ but is no longer crushing his fingers. The doctor gives them a smile and tells them yes Combeferre’s leg is broken and he wants an X-ray as soon as possible, but it might be an hour or two. Once they have that they will know more, but he’s confident it’s a simple fracture and six weeks in a cast.

Combeferre looks relieved as the medics leave them alone in the otherwise empty room, although he’ll feel much better once he sees his own X-ray. Enjolras squeezes onto the bed with him, hip to hip, facing Combeferre.

“I was so worried.” He admits, biting his lip. 

“I’m sorry. I’m not even sure what happened, I saw Joly get hit in the head and suddenly I was on the floor…” Combeferre says a little sleepily.

Enjolras glares at him. “Don’t apologise. You strange child. You couldn’t help being hurt anymore than I could help being worried. I have no idea what even went on today…how did it…” he trails off with a baffled sigh, wincing as the movement hurts his bruised ribs. 

Combeferre opens his eyes a little wider. “Are you alright? You’re really not hurt?”

“I’m fine, ‘Ferre, really. A bit sore, that’s all.”

Combeferre doesn’t look entirely convinced. “Are you sure, because you’re awfully pale.”

Enjolras smiles, “Well I am worrying too.” He leans down and kisses Combeferre’s forehead as he stands up. “I’m worrying so you don’t have to. I’m really OK. Promise.” Combeferre gives him a tirednod. “Now, I need to go and track down the others – I haven’t seen or spoken with Bossuett or Feuilly. Bahorel is fine I’m sure, but I’d like to know for sure and, god, Jehan. I’d almost forgotten with getting you and Joly here. He was…he was in a pretty bad way. Grantaire is with him but…”

“I’m fine here, go. Go, mother hen, go.” Combeferre’s eyes are drifting shut, the drugs carrying him into sleep. Enjolras can’t quite bring himself to glare, even in jest, at him for the teasing but instead gives him another kiss and departs.

He checks on Joly first, finding Courfeyrac sitting at his bedside, one of Joly’s hands, which trails lines and wires, between both of his. He’s been crying.

“’Fey.” He whispers as he pushes the door open and hold out his arms. Courfeyrac goes to him immediately, wrapping his arms around Enjolras’ waist and burying his face into his shoulder. Enjolras tries to not to hiss as Courfeyrac’ arm brushes the bruising on his right side and asks instead, “How is he?” if his voice cracks a little, it’s down to concern for his friend, not the pain.

Courfeyrac sniffs and gives him a watery smile. “Fine.” He says. “Well, not exactly. He’s still unconscious, but they think he should be fine. They took him for a CAT scan, to check for swelling, I think, but it all seems to be alright. Just battered and bruised.” He lets out a shaky breath and wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands. “I’m sorry for…” he gestures at his tear stained face, but Enjolras shushes him and pushes him back down on to the stool by Joly’s bed. 

“Don’t. It’s alright. Combeferre’s leg is broken, but they don’t think it’s bad. They’re both going to be fine.” He takes Courfeyrac’s face in between his hands and brushes his thumbs over his cheeks, wiping away the last of the tears but accidentally smearing mud, and a bit of blood – Jehan’s probably – over them. He doesn’t tell Courfeyrac this for now. The crushing panic which he has kept barely restrained in his chest since the riot began is relaxing its grip now he know at least 3 of friends are, mostly, alright. “Are you alright to stay here with him, wait for Bossuett, while I check on the others?”

Even as he says it, it becomes a moot point as Bossuet barrels through the double doors into the trauma room, flying to Joly’s side. The panic wanes a little more as he watches Coufeyrac reassure Bossuett. Bossuett, if he is hurt at all, can walk and so Enjolras ticks him off his mental list. 

He leaves them, asking Courfeyrac to stay with Combeferre once Bossuett is settled with Joly; because both of them know Bossuett will not be leaving Joly’s side for a moment for the foreseeable future.

A nurse tells Enjolras Jehan is in surgery when he asks at the desk. Surgery. Jehan is in surgery. The panic clutches at his heart and makes it miss a beat. He pushes it down firmly and heads for the nearest elevator and tries to navigate the incomprehensible hospital layout in search of the surgery department. 

He finds Grantaire pacing and fretting in a waiting room. “They’ve been in there hours…a nurse just told me they’re almost finished…”

Enjolras stops the pacing with a hand on Grantaire’s arm and pulls the cynic into a gentle hug. Feeling the solidity of the other man in his arms appeases the panic just a little, but the ache in his ribs replaces it with a painful throb. “It’s alright Grantaire. You were with him. He’ll be fine.” He tells the other man with a lot more certainty than he felt. “Did he wake up at all?” Enjolras releases Grantaire to see him nod. 

“Yes, as they were prepping him for surgery. He said you saved his life.” Grantaire is giving him that look which is something between awe and worship; Enjolras shifts uncomfortably under that gaze and pushes a whole different set of feelings, none of which are worry or panic, into the pit of his belly.

“No. Bahorel probably saved both of our lives.” He answers honestly. He catches his Grantaire’s fingers in his own and gives them a little squeeze. “Thank you for staying with him.”

Grantaire looks a little shocked. “Of course…where else would I be.”

Enjolras only smiles in response, but adds another emotion to the ball in his chest; guilt. Grantaire was only at that protest because Enjolras had asked him to be. He doesn’t mention this but tells Grantaire he needs to check on the others. 

He finds a pay phone and miraculously some quarters in his pocket. As he dials Cosette’s number he watches Grantaire resume his pacing. Cosette is their ‘base’ for this protest. She wasn’t happy about it, muttering vaguely feminist sentiment under her breath as she does about any notion that she ought to be protected. But she did as requested, she had been designated base by luck of the draw and it is her unenviably duty to stay at the flat by the phone as a single point of contact if anyone is hurt or lost. They rarely need to use the base, but this time Enjolras is beyod glad she is at the other end of the phone. She answers immediately and is wonderfully calm and collected as she tells him all she knows. Bahorel is fine; one of the first to call her to let her know its all gone tits up but he’s fine, the others aren’t and he’s on his way to the hospital he thinks they’ve been taken to. Enjolras is thankful and barely notices as his hands flutters to his chest as a little more of the panic dissipates. He’s fine. On his way to the hospital.

Marius and Eponine have both made it back to the flat unscathed, shoved behind the police line so they could see nor help their friends.

Feuilly hasn’t called in yet. 

The panic reasserts it’s grip over Enjolras’ heart.

It isn’t long before a surgeon appears in the doors which lead to the theatres. He is smiling but there is a concerned frown twisting his expression.

“Your friend was pretty severely injured.” He says, sitting them both down. “Luckily, there was no internal bleeding which we were afraid of. A few cracked ribs and a broken clavicle and pretty well beaten up. He’s young, he’ll recover from all of that with time.”

“But…” Grantaire says, voice tight.

“But he hasn’t yet woken up, which I would have expected him to do by now. Head injuries are complicated thngs, we’ve taken a CAT scan to check from brain damage.”

Enjolras thinks his heart is going to damn near stop the panic has it clamped down do hard. Brain damage. Brain damage.

“The scan looks fine. We’ll repeat the test in an hour or so, to see if there are any changes. A slow bleed or blood clot for instance but it could just be that he isn’t waking up yet.”

Enjolras’ heart is still beating and he fumbles for Grantaire’s hand as he says in a voice much steadier than he feels,”Can we see him?”

The doctor nods, “Yes, of course. Just to warn you, it might look a bit scary. There’s a lot of tubes giving Jehan medicines, and another tube in this throat to help him breathe. And he’s black and blue.” He leads them down a corridor and into a room with the letters SICU printed onto the glass door in black letters. 

Enjolras does not let go of Grantaire’s hand until he has to to pull on a gown of some description and cram his hair into a blue scrub cap.

“I shouldn’t really have both of you in here.” The doctor murmurs softly as he leads them to Jehan’s bed. “But it will be alright for a few minutes. I can only let one of you stay with him though.”

Jehan really is black and blue, and almost unrecognisable in the white hospital gown and white sheets, flowers entirely lacking. His face is swollen on one side and held together with butterfly strips and stitches. Enjolras feels Grantaire squeeze his hand tighter. 

Despite the fact he’s a mess, seeing Jehan helps Enjolras if only marginally. At a base level he can see his friend is breathing, he’s alive, and Enjolras realises he’d been afraid the opposite was true ever since the paramedic had lifted the poet, bleeding, from Enjolras’ arms.

He and Grantaire stay watching Jehan’s chest move rhythmically in time with the in-and-out whoosh of the ventilator for several minutes. Their hands are intertwined between them and they lean into each other.

After a while the doctor reminds them only one of them can stay. Enjolras shakes himself out of the paralysed silence which has gripped him and ushers Grantaire into the chair by the bed. 

“I need to find Feuilly. Stay with him, keep talking to him. He will come back to us.” Enjolras whispers, tucking stray curls behind Grantaire’s ears in as much of an affectionate gesture as he can allow himself at the moment.

The panic is almost overwhelming as he makes his way back downstairs; Feuilly still hasn’t called in, Cosette tells him worry evident in her own voice as he calls her again. 

He breathes a little easier once he’s back in the room Combeferre now shares with Joly, who is finally, awake. Bossuett is at his side, and Courfeyrac between the beds, one hand stretched out to hold Joly’s and the other tangled in Combeferre’s fingers.

Enjolras reports his findings to them, watches them pale as he relates Jehan’s condition.

He stands by Combeferre’s bed, capturing his hand and holding on to it for dear life as he explains he is going to have to leave to find Feuilly.

As though his words have summoned the man, Feuilly appears breathlessly in the doorway.

Enjolras scrambles over to his side, seizing the man by the shoulders. “Oh my god. Are you alright? Where have you been? Are you hurt?” 

Feuilly looks taken aback by the torrent of questions which tumble from Enjolras’ lips as he pats him down, looking for any sign of injury. But he takes it in his stride and envelops Enjolras in his arms.

“I’m fine. I’m so, so sorry for worrying you.” He says. “The police had me pinned to the sidewalk for about an hour, I swear. I got here as soon as I could. I’m so sorry.”

Enjolras laughs, so glad he is to Feuilly unharmed. He unhands him, letting him go to an empty chair and sit as the other amis in the room reassure him they are fine, or will be with time. 

Combeferre’s X-ray confirmed the fracture was clean and simple; he’ll be in a cast for 6 weeks but that’s fine with him, it could have been much worse. 

Joly is awake and talking, a little loopy on painkillers for the head-splitting headache which will probably remain with him for days. 

Bossuett, for once, is unhurt and giddy with relief his Joly is going to be fine.

Courfeyrac looks almost back to his usual cheerful self, surrounded by his mostly in tact friends and at the centre of them all.

Bahorel is fine.

Marius and the girls are fine, worried and on their way to the hospital a text informs him.

Feuilly is fine and he’s here.

Grantaire is fine, standing sentinel over Jehan.

And Jehan…Jehan is going to be fine, Enjolras tell himself firmly. 

The panic has subsided incrementally as he mentally lists his friends, the 11 pieces of his heart. But the pain in his side is fast taking its place. He presses shaking fingers to his lips and says “I’m so relieved you’re all alright.” And slumps to the floor in a dead faint.

**Author's Note:**

> Please do review, it really helps and is most appreciated!


End file.
